Cheating Death
CHEATING DEATH
Life on the Highway
KEITH MAY
GO WHERE the wind blows you," suggested the Editor. “Here’s the key to a Harley-Davidson. Bring it and yourself back in one piece.”
And so it began. A dream assignment and a chance to visit the family in Georgia I was growing oddly sentimental about.
Fighting panic-attacks since the diagnosis of an aortic aneurysm, 1 challenged the Grim Reaper to catch me if he could, on the highways of rural America.
“ What have l gotten myself into? ! " I yelled inside my helmet. A novice rider, I’d left my idyllic home in Southern California only an hour ago, but nervous excitement was immediately replaced by mortal fear. I’d been greeted by the wind. Unpredictable. Unforgiving. Unrelenting. A phantom menace. The bike shimmied and swayed like a drunken sailor. My first destination was to be Death Valley to the north, but choosing the path of least resistance I changed course, and headed east to Arizona.
Relieved to have the wind at my back, I was able to appreciate the motorcycle’s character. Silver paint, black motor, roaring pipes and plenty of chrome. A sporty cruiser with removable saddlebags. Harley-Davidson calls this model the T-Sport because it’s as comfortable on the highway as it is on curvy backroads. I call it “Silver” because I feel like the Lone Ranger.
I’m searching for Route 66 when I spot a colorful junkyard to my left and immediately pull over to explore photo-ops. Hundreds of crushed yellow school buses piled atop one another like banana peels lie discarded along bordering railroad tracks. Excitedly,
I take Silver down a sandy wash looking for a dramatic cameraangle. Bad decision on a streetbike, but I realize this too late. The slick rear tire has sunk deep into the sand and I begin rocking the bike, praying for traction. And then I notice a menacing guard-dog sign directly in front of me. Realizing I’m trespassing on private property, I twist the throttle harder and create a 20-foot roostertail. Luckily, the tire achieves needed traction and lunges us awkwardly forward out of the sand trap. A photo missed, but lesson learned.
Covered in dust, I ramble onto a deserted stretch of Route 66 and introduce myself to America’s “Mother Road,” sonamed by Steinbeck in his Grapes of Wrath. After taking formal portraits of Silver at an abandoned gas station, I make it to Ludlow, California, as the sun disappears behind distant, glowing mesas.
After checking into the town’s only motel, I inhale hot food at an A-frame diner filled with plastic flowers and weary travelers. Back in my concrete room, there’s no picture on the vintage television, and I fall asleep listening to Disney’s Old Yeller on a clock radio. At the sentimental ending, Fess Parker returns to impart the following wisdom to his confused son:
“Sometimes, for no apparent reason, life slaps you down so hard you feel like your insides are splattered on the ground. But not always. Most times life is good. But if you think about the bad, you ruin the good. You can always find something good if you look for it. ”
Day changed two. More from wind. the featureless Rough asphalt. Mojave Geography Desert to drahas matic rock formations reaching for an azure sky. At a stop for gas and a map of Arizona, a local riding shirtless on a weathered ATV suggests that I visit nearby Oatman. Thankful for direction, I take his advice.
A once-thriving mining town, Oatman is now a donkeyfilled main street of shabby gift shops. A gunfight is staged at 1 p.m. in front of the Wells Fargo. Outlaws carrying bags of stolen gold burst through the swinging front doors and are immediately confronted by the town sheriff, who demands they stand down. Desperados choose instead to gun him down, but as they boast to the camera-wielding audience, the sheriff dramatically rises from the dead, exacting his revenge to save another day. When the show is over tourists enthusiastically stuff cash and coin into the grizzled actors’ sweat-ringed hats. It’s choreographed highway robbery, but fantastic theater. Curiosity fulfilled, I leave the dusty town to enjoy a lazy ride north to Kingman.
At the end of only my second day, I relax in a motel jacuzzi, then force down a dry hamburger and cold fries at Mad Dog’s Bar & Grill, writing postcards and avoiding the attention of drunken cowboys surrounding the bar. Safely back in my room, I begin this journal.
After complimentary breakfast and a scan of the newspaper, I take a brochure for the Meteor Crater from the front desk. Finally, a destination.
Feeling at home on Old Route 66,1 stop in Seligman, Arizona, at postcard-photographer Bill Riley’s hard-to-ignore gift shop, a colorful, western facade with costumed mannequins posed meticulously around the property. Inside, I discover endless shelves littered with clocks, saltshakers, license plates, spoons, mirrors and T-shirts. All decorated with that familiar Route 66 sign. 1 purchase a couple of postcards, receive an honorary Route 66 driver’s license and escape as a tour bus empties arthritic seniors into the waiting trap.
Increasing elevation and heavy sleet brings out my electric jacket liner and I join the Santa Fe Trail. The road is slick and the fog heavy, the shoulder buried in ice and snow. Cold, tired and hungry, I roll into Flagstaff, check into a motel and sleep hard. Uninspired by first impressions of this town, I plan to head out early tomorrow in search of the famed Meteor Crater. There’s been no sign of The Reaper and I hope he’s lost my trail.
Common sense is the better part of valor!” my new friend yells through the wind and rain. I had stopped to tighten the load and don more raingear. But rain has again become sleet and the animated warnings of riders headed in the opposite direction convince me to return to Flagstaff and hunker down.
I stop at a cozy diner and am quickly greeted by an attractive waitress determined to make me warm and comfortable.
Aly, 22, has rosy cheeks and a pretty smile. We make plans to meet later at a bar called Charly’s. Flagstaff, it seems, is looking better all the time.
The Saddle Tramps are a traveling band from Reno featuring a busty, pistol-toting go-go dancer named Suzy Switchblade. With song titles like “Cindy Brady’s Having My Baby,” and “Truck Driving Lover,” these bastard sons of Johnny Cash keep the house rocking well past last-call. Scripted, comical anecdotes introduce each song while Suzy shakes her moneymaker and fires loud blanks into the air. Aly arrives with fast friends and we take off for a slippery drive through snow and sleet in the soggy bed of a pickup truck, alcohol keeping us warm, playful kisses making us hot. At the end of the road, we take a break to make drunken snow angels before heading back to my motel. Aware of our obvious attraction and protective of their friend, Aly’s pals insist I’m dropped off alone. After all, they hardly know me and I’m just a biker passing through.
I wake to find Silver buried in snow, but in last night’s haze 1 had thrown a blanket over her, and she happily rumbles to life, unlike myself, still a little buzzed.
After a long shower and hot breakfast, I flip from the “Andy Griffith Show’’ to the Weather Channel in search of an optimistic forecast. Snow continues to fall outside, but I’m in no hurry to leave-I’ve got a date for the night.
Aly calls at 6 and brings over Perry, her adorable boxer. After sloppy introductions, we visit the fluff-and-fold, make some dinner, drink red wine and relax in a studio apartment she shares with an ex-boyfriend. Aly is a regular at openmic nights and shares her original folk songs, delivered in a soft voice over subtle chord changes. She’s pretty and talented, a gypsy by nature, picking up stakes when life becomes routine. But then her ex arrives with a 12-pack of Coors and successfully changes the atmosphere. Aly and I exchange awkward farewells and I leave the next morning.
Upon her advice, I head south to Sedona. After photographing the expected rock formations, I head east to Jerome.
In the 1800s, Jerome was a booming copper-mining town, but it’s now a struggling arts and crafts community trying to make a comeback. At the end of a gravel road, I pay admission to view a collection of assorted relics displayed with deliberate chaos. A faux missile sits on a nearby hilltop and the proud caretaker informs me that it’s aimed at Washington, D.C., a less-than-subtle statement regarding federal taxes. I photograph this and many other details, but with ominous rain clouds approaching, I leave quickly for Camp Verde. I arrive late, take the last room in an overpriced Super 8 and walk to Dairy Queen, the only option in town. Ah, road food.
The phantom menace returns the following day, but Silver keeps her nose forward, undeterred by the gusts. I stop at Tonto Natural Bridge, only to find a long hike into a deep canyon. I’m not dressed for strenuous trekking and nervous about leaving my gear exposed to easy theft. I'm relieved to find everything still there upon my return, but remind myself to avoid lengthy nature trails.
From there, it’s flat-out through Arizona’s red-rock country to New Mexico, where I stop in a lonely border town called Reserve. The bar’s closed, and there’s no restaurant in town, so I return to my quiet room and make oatmeal on a tiny stove I’d brought for camping.
The following day, mongrel dogs chase me out of town into Billy the Kid country, the panoramic region where the young outlaw’s vicious crimes became romanticized legend. Silver displays a deep affection for the incredible series of NM 180, and I backtrack 50 miles so she can do it again.
The day ends at Las Cruces, where Billy was sentenced to hang, but escaped, only to be shot dead by Pat Garret three months later at Fort Sumter.
The next day, driving crosswinds blow me to White Sands.
Surrounded by a massive missile test range, it’s a lazy, featureless ride through a post-apocalyptic landscape. Just beyond, I battle through a gauntlet of dust storms, filling my breath and vision with sand. A nervous couple passes in an SUV and, rather than giving me the usual thumbs-up, they cross their fingers and flash me anxious looks.
Luckily, fear induces a state of auto-pilot where adrenaline removes all distraction to focus purely on self-preservation. With no escape in sight, I press on regardless.
When I eventually pull in to Roswell, I’m physically and mentally spent. My glands are swollen and swallowing is painful. I lose my glasses but find some cough drops.
Locals appear indifferent, but otherwise human. At the motel, 1 numbly liberate Silver from her heavy load, a nowautomatic process repeated every night, and in reverse each following morning.
After fighting an eventless more wind night to famous recovering, Carlsbad I leave Caverns. Roswell, I park at the entrance and reluctantly leave my gear unattended for an extended visit to the center of the Earth. Nothing can prepare you for the size of this vast, intricate chasm of melting wall and dripping ceilings, like something fantastic from the mind of Jules Verne. But after a while, you’ve seen one stalagmite, you’ve seen them all, and two hours and a postcard later I’m back on the highway crossing the Texas state line, all too aware of the emptiness lying ahead of me. It can take a lifetime to cross this great state, and many never make it.
Gliding along the interstate, my tired eyes attempt to focus on the featureless horizon, distracted occasionally by lonely tumbleweeds. After enjoying a brilliant Texas sunset, I pull into Ozona, check into a Travelodge and have dinner at the Davy Crockett Club, once a horse corral, now a charming sawdust-filled steakhouse. A cadre of out-of-state bikes is hitched out front, but I instead dine at the bar with beaver-pelted locals.
Steve is a 30-something paramedic who studies the size of stranger's veins when off-duty, “Just in case of emergency,” he explains over cold Lone Stars. Steve shares his own dream of exploring America on a Harley while I listen intently. His friends see a willing ear and are soon sharing their simple dreams also. Given a chance, and a few cold ones, any man will share his life story. And most are worth hearing.
I leave Ozona on Thursday morning and rest my feet on the highway pegs to stretch out and enjoy the ride across West Texas to San Antonio. I reach the Alamo through confusing detours and oppressive heat, but find no parking available. The bike buried in gear and the Alamo surrounded, I leave without a picture. I’m anxious to arrive in Austin before nightfall.
The Live Music Capital of the World, Austin lives up to its reputation every night. A college town filled with loud clubs and eccentric citizens. While I’m enjoying a late dinner at the Paradise, a pretty gal approaches, casually taking the seat next to mine. She inquires about my adventure and expresses an interest in photography. So I offer her a camera and we leave the crowded bar to cruise the streets. Kiely’s a fun girl, incredibly sharp, but barely making it in the big city. She does a fine job of showing me around, introducing me to friends on every comer. But in a popular club called Emo’s, we become separated for too long and I begin worrying about the camera. It appears I’ve been robbed and I question my faith in human nature.
I’m preparing to search the alley when Kiely suddenly reappears. “I was taking photos inside the girls’ room,” she says innocently. I’m relieved to see her and choose not to share my previous suspicions. My faith has been restored.
At last-call, we ride Silver up the hill to my hotel, order something on the pay-per-view and get more comfortable. We awake slightly better acquainted. Later in the morning, Kiely and I ride Silver around Austin’s city limits, enjoying our short time together. After sweet good-byes, I leave for New Orleans via Houston
A perfect example that no amount of planning can accommodate the sprawl man has created, Houston is a human logjam. After spending half a day getting through it, I shed my jacket to cool off, only to be painfully reminded by a gravel truck that the protection of a jacket is always a good idea.
The welt on my shoulder stings like hell as I roll wounded into Louisiana. The humid air of the bayou is filled with ambrosia of honeysuckles, while long concrete bridges span the murky swamps below. Hypnotized, I contemplate that life itself is only a journey, and expectation the usual cause of disappointment. Perhaps I should just relax. Hey, you can’t get lost if you have no destination.
My newfound optimism ends in New Orleans.
Like most cities, The Big Easy is overcrowded, unhealthy and in a state of moral decline. The thick mid-day air sucks my energy in one hot breath. The French Quarter is filled with color, but there’s nowhere to park the bike, hotels are beyond budget and every turn leads me farther into a urine-soaked abyss. Disgusted, I twist the throttle and motor on.
Haunted by photos missed, I stop outside of town to reevaluate. After checking into an affordable motel, I return to Bourbon Street in the relative cool of sunset. It’s the night before Easter Sunday and I find myself taking a break in the old Absinthe Bar. Once the famous watering hole for Mark Twain and his contemporaries, it’s now called Mango-Mango and is just another Disneyesque facade serving $10 daiquiris while disco music blares obnoxiously through loud-speakers. Outside, the ugly masses throng down Bourbon Street like zombies looking for a fix. Anything to
escape the obscene reality around them. Beggars litter the streets, while performers tap-dance or just stand motionless as dazed tourists toss tributes into buckets and boxes. “Love Acts” are promised in neon, painted women luring customers past the velvet-roped entrance. This is Dante’s Inferno, only more desperate.
I return to Silver and escape the haunted French Quarter. Back in my room, I shower and climb into bed. Sensing Death somewhere nearby, however, my dreams are filled with troubling visions.
he next morning, I’m relieved to be awake and back on the highway. Silver, however, does not appreciate this oppressive
Southern climate and rattles her unhappiness at every opportunity. She’s been through mountain snow, desert heat and overpopulation. She’s earned my sympathy, and as we leave the humid bayou heading north to Mississippi, Silver immediately expresses her gratitude, revving full-song along flawless Interstate 59.
With a gracious speed limit of 70 mph on a perfect ribbon of gray asphalt, this is a great place to unwind.
The clean smell of rain arrives and I prepare for the wet. The clouds are dark and lightning flashes on the horizon. Drizzle becomes downpour and I begin looking for shelter. Sliding onto an exit, I spot a small brick church, pull up and huddle alone on a damp porch. Puddles form in the mud around Silver as I call my mother on the cell and tell her I won’t be home for Easter. “But at least I’m at church!” I add halfjoking. Hearing family in the background, I decide to take my chances. The clouds part and I ramble on to Alabama over steaming pavement.
It’s only a hundred miles farther to my hometown in Georgia, but when riding at night, exhausted and alone on unfamiliar blacktop, very bad things can happen. Reluctantly, I begin searching for a cheap room.
It’s late in Birmingham when I check into a dank chamber at the Villager Motel. After a tattooed unfriendly leaps from the shadows to ask about my beautiful Harley, I cautiously reload the bike and politely check out. It would have been a sleepless night at best, at worst my last.
The phantom menace returns in the a.m. Unlike the constant winds out west, these powerful gusts hit with erratic punches. Two lefts, then a right; I’m waiting for an uppercut. Quickly through a perpetually green Talladega National Forest, 1 cross the Georgia state line, welcome familiar surroundings and pull into my parents’ driveway. Pop's happily working in the garage while Mama prepares lunch in the kitchen. She wasn’t pleased about my plans for this trip, but Pop understood completely. After a night’s rest in my old room-formerly a shrine to Van Halen, now to cherubs and Beanie Babies-I spend the next day riding shotgun with Pop in his pickup, sharing memories while searching for landmarks.
As always, Pop is game for anything and appears content participating in my scavenger hunt. We locate a forgotten Confederate graveyard and explore a textile mill destroyed by Union soldiers. After dropping Silver off for much-needed service, we hike through canyons of 18-wheelers at a local truck stop.
My Pop’s a truck driver. As a child, I naively imagined the adventures he might be having on the open road. Infinite convoys of determined drivers dropping freight and moving on. A brotherhood of mesh-capped warriors communicating over the CB, warning of “Smokies” and “County-Mounties,” bucketing along the interstate in their big-rigs, stealing a nap in the sleeper-cab, a big diesel purring steadily underneath.
Occasionally, Pop would take me along on local runs. 1 was in heaven watching the world go by beneath us, my dad talking on the CB as if he knew everyone, exchanging colorful handles and “Ten-four, good buddies.” This was the rural south. Highways carving infinite swaths through bluegreen mountains and red clay hillsides. Unchecked kudzu clinging to everything in sight. Boiled peanuts promised at every exit. Stuckey’s for Moon-Pies and pecan logs. Eventually, lunch at a quiet truck stop, conversation limited to weather (more rain) and the Braves (this could be the year). Politics off-limits and religion never questioned. The Old South before it was new. The same country, 20 years later, that I found myself in.
Riding again with Pop, the true intent of my cross-country mission became suddenly clear.
Since my family sharing had the been sobering scrambling diagnosis in preparation of the aneurysm, for the possible loss of their son/brother/uncle, drawing straws to choose who might travel to California to care for me after invasive surgery. I was a career bachelor after all, and their panic was justified. Proving my endurance with a solo ride across the country on a motorcycle would hopefully alleviate their concerns, ending the constant worry about my condition. Mission accomplished, I now have to make it back to California.
The next day, I pick up Silver and she appears happy to see me, getting reacquainted on Georgia backroads, running strong. On Friday, I visit the fifth-grade class of my angelic niece Erica for a Shown-Tell. The kids ask questions like, “When do you sleep?” and, “Does your butt hurt?” But all they really want to do is see the motorcycle, so we walk singlefile to the parking lot for introductions. They jump back in unison when Silver roars to life, immediately sharing my awe of her. I try to leave a positive impression, hoping they can pursue their own adventures someday.
Saturday morning, I tum and wave good-bye to the family rumbling toward Dahlonega, a historic mining town nestled deep in the north Georgia mountains.
Dogwood and pine generously > displaying saturated greens and yellows of spring, the sight and smell of new life fills my senses. t’s a bumpy ride to Amarillo. This stretch of Highway 40 is poorly maintained, requiring full attention and quick reactions.
Happy to be on the road again, I stumble onto Highway 60, a popular stretch of undulating twists and turns following the Ocoee River to Tennessee. Ifs a sunny weekend and the churning river overflows with canoes, kayaks and tire-tubes. Lazily, I meander through hills and valleys in search of a “See Rock City” barn. Decades ago, the marketing staff at Lookout Mountain near Chattanooga painted hundreds of barn roofs in every direction with bright, bold lettering enticing travelers. A wrong turn carries me into Alabama, where I find one of the few originals still standing.
Another mission accomplished, I turn north on Highway 72 bound for Memphis. A straight shot through one small town after another, including Tuscumbia, the birthplace of Helen Keller, who so eloquently stated: “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children oj men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is a daring adventure or nothing at all. ” Words to live by.
n Collierville, Tennessee, I locate an old town square and introduce myself to Henry, one of America’s last remaining gas station pump-jockeys. He’s polite and willing to be included in my adventure. News apparently travels fast and I'm soon approached by a photographer requesting to interview me for the town paper. It appears I’m doing something of interest. Or maybe it’s just a slow news day.
Near Memphis, I’m struck unaware by a sudden storm. No time to don raingear, I pull into Memphis soaked to my bones. After a damp night in a Comfort Inn, I put in the requisite visit to Graceland, leave not overly impressed, then head to Arkansas on Highway 63.
In Imboden, I spot a sign proudly declaring “Confederate Souvenirs” and make a quick U-turn. The owner, Roy Waggoner, is waiting out front to greet me as I rumble to a stop. A gracious man with a proud heritage, “Coach” taught history and headed the football team at Imboden High. He gives me the dime tour where I find a treasure-chest of politically incorrect items celebrating the Confederacy.
Roy’s wife is a gentle Southern woman and asks me to call when I make it home to California.
Down the road in Hardy, I find myself being watched intently by a parked squad car as I photograph an old gravity pump. I wave but receive no response. Insulted and curious, I walk toward the officer.
He doesn’t budge or roll down the window, but instead maintains his unnerving stare. Just as I’m about to angrily knock on the window, I realize the officer is a mannequin and the car a prop, parked to slow traffic entering Main Street. Anger becomes embarrassment and I walk away sheepishly, hoping no one was watching. I eventually make it to White Plains, Missouri, at the end of another long day.
Wednesday morning, I leave White Plains and immediately see the sign, “Livestock Auction.” Sounds like another promising opportunity, so I quickly exit. As in most stops on this journey, people are goodnatured and easily welcome me into the fold. The auc tion's organizers are flattered by my interest and I enjoy biscuits and ravv hea'rty bmakfas spend the morning as a mysterious stranger, documenting the proceedings while stalking a camera-shy family of Amish. At auction’s end, I say good-bye to my new friends and return to the highway.
At noon I pass through Tulsa, rocketing on to Oklahoma City where I call it a day. I spend the next morning at the Oklahoma City Memorial, with its brooding assemblage of 168 empty chairs, a terrible reminder that terrorism can be home-grown, too.
Numbed by the experience and looking for a distraction, I stop at “King of The Road” Roger Miller’s hometown, Erick, an empty city perfectly suiting the traveling balladeer-there was apparently nothing to keep him around. >
Riddled with wheel-grabbing potholes and cracks the size of small canyons, it’s an evil obstacle course. Occasionally my aim is off, and I’m thrown into the air, immediately pulling over to reattach a dangling saddlebag./ Thirty miles east of Amarillo is the imposing “Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” Over 200 feet high, this towering monolith is the largest crucifix in the Western Hemisphere, surrounded by highly detailed bronze statues reenacting Christ’s trial, death and resurrection.
Silver’s running on fumes when I coast joyously into an open gas station. Welcome to Amarillo, Armpit of America. A prison town without merit. Feeling outnumbered by wandering parolees, 1 look forward to my own escape. After yet another breakfast of coffee, eggs and bacon, I leave early the next day to visit the famous “Cadillac Ranch” on the other side of town. The partially buried Caddies are now covered in graffiti from hundreds of daily visitors, only adding to their bizarre appearance.
After 27 days and 6000 miles, my tailbone hurts, my fingers cramp on the heavy clutch, and I’m homesick for Southern California. I’m alive, however, and a momentary folk-hero wherever I stop.
I head toward Taos, New Mexico, but am confronted by lightning storms of Tolkien dimension. I’m not sure how conductive the bike is and do not intend to find out the hard way. I’m sitting on the only metal object for miles, so I change course and stop in a small town called Roy to consider my options over a warm patty-melt. Relying on the spirited advice of Roy’s five humble citizens, I’m now bound for Santa Fe.
Storms comfortably behind, I pass through the most amazing canyon country I’ve seen thus far. New Mexico is indeed a Land of Enchantment and it becomes quite easy to understand Native American mysticism. I arrive in Santa Fe and convince a gentleman at the welcome center to watch my gear while I explore town. A heavy, spiritual vibe permeates the crisp desert atmosphere.
After trading with Indians, meeting a shaman and pausing at the Cathedral of Saint Assisi, I leave Santa Fe, blast through Albuquerque and visit remote El Malpais National Monument, hoping to photograph a grandiose sunset. Unfortunately, the bike’s shift lever rattles off as I bounce down a roughly graded service road. Idling along in the same gear for miles, I did not notice its absence.
With the sun setting fast, I was lucky to eventually find it. I’ve lost valuable time, however, and I’m on a vast reservation. Luckily, the sunset provides a light show, the stars provide an encore, and I’m not happy to return to civilization after all.
Gallup is busy for a quiet town, and surrounded by natural beauty. I dine alone near anxious prom dates, then return to a cold room where trains shake the foundation as they whistle through. Noisy Navajos argue outside my window, and I sleep with one eye open.
The next morning, I finally arrive at Meteor Crater and pay $10 to see the world's biggest roadside attrac-
tion, left behind by a close encounter 50,000 years ago. Sitting on the edge of a mile-wide divot, I reflect on the last 30 days. “Let fate determine the outcome,” the Editor suggested all those miles ago. A veteran rider, he was aware of the inevitable challenges ahead, but knew that through hell I might find heaven and this was my personal vision-quest. Like Fess Parker said, “If you think about the bad, you ruin the good. There’s always something good if you look for it.” And find it I did.
And my faithful companion Silver? She proved to be the ideal conversation piece and passport into circles otherwise forbidden. Rarely complaining and never failing, with her steady rumbling beneath me, I never felt alone.
The next day, I run the final gauntlet through scorching desert and tangled L.A. traffic to my small home in Costa Mesa. Dream assignment complete, fears of Death somewhere far behind. □
Now a firm believer in the healing power of motorcycles, Keith May is Cycle World's Assistant Art Director.
